


Waylon Told Stories Outside of Class

by plantinthecorner (spierfxld)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Death Threats, Eddie Gluskin Being Eddie Gluskin, Gen, Hallucinations, Mental Instability, Miles Upshur Lives, Outlast: Whistleblower, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, sex reassignment surgery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29168316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spierfxld/pseuds/plantinthecorner
Summary: When Waylon Park finds himself in the shoes of a variant, it quickly becomes his goal to escape the asylum. Of course, though, this is never done easily. At least he's not alone this time.
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my personal take (spin-off) of Outlast: Whistleblower. Though some of it is similar to the original game, the majority of the story will be my own version of it.
> 
> Enjoy :)
> 
> Requests? Let me know! ao3writingrequests@gmail.com

Mr. Park

_ You don’t know me. Have to make this quick. They might be monitoring. _

_ I did 2 weeks of software consult at MURKOFF Psychiatric Systems’ facilities in Mount Massive. All sorts of NDA’s I am very much breaking right now but seriously, fuck those guys. _

_ Terrible things are happening there. Don’t understand it. Don’t believe half the things I saw. Doctors talking about dream therapy going too deep, finding something that had been waiting for them in mountain. People are being hurt and Murkoff is making money. _

_ It needs to be exposed. _

His leg bounced continuously, waiting without much patience left. His palms had begun sweating the minute he sat down to form the quick email. His mind was shifting; in too many places at once. God, he’d thought that working for such a top-notch place would at least offer decent wifi.

“Who’s in here?” His heart dropped at the sound of the voice, startling him from his thoughts. He glanced to and from his laptop just in time to see the email send. “What the hell are you doing?” The voice was distant, as if they were just outside the room. He shut the laptop before scooting his chair back, catching a glimpse of the employee in the process.

“Sorry, I was just finishing something up.” Waylon murmured.

“Well, Christ. They’ve paged for you three times already, there’s something urgent at the engine.”

Park nodded before squeezing past the security guard, wanting to get whatever this mess was over with as soon as possible. The minute he stepped out of the room, his skin was met with the unwelcoming burst of cold air that it usually offered. He shivered, feeling uneasy. The entire building gave him that feeling.  _ God _ , he hated this job.

His short walk to the Morphogenic Engine included picking out bits and pieces of conversation from other staff around the building, hearing the occasional, “I just want to know we’re inventing something other than shiny new cancers”, and “You’re Waylon Park, aren’t you? Why weren’t you answering the page? I’ll tell them you’re incoming.”

“Thank you.” Was all he could say. He felt weak in the knees, knowing that he was secretly going against the company as a whole with the information he wanted to release to the world.

He finally reached the lab, earning a “Ah, Park. You’re cutting it close, next patient’s incoming and Arterial Spin’s still dark. We need you at the front terminal.” from yet another person behind the madness. Even through the fuzziness of it all, he could still make out the description of the next patient-- or victim, as he liked to call it-- grasping the general understanding that this person was a male and was sexually abused as a child. Jesus fucking Christ, of course the company would take advantage of someone with a past mental state like that.

When someone asked Stephenson, head of security, if calling into the chamber to delay the process would be necessary, he responded with a simple, “No. I don’t need another performance evaluation. Mr. Park here is going to have us up and running before we even know it. Right, Mr. Park?” To which Waylon could only nod in affirmation.

So, he got to work. It was the usual process, working on getting everything set up for the machine to start running. Typing in codes here and there, testing his patience with the slow internet server again. He was startled out of his focused-work state when the patient--Eddie Gluskin, the monitor projected-- slammed himself against the front window in an attempt to break the system and save himself with what little time he had left.

“Help me! Don’t let them do this! Don’t let them! I know you can stop this! You have to help me! You have to…” Eddie was cut off due to the combined strength of multiple security guards, who forced him to the location he was dreading in the first place.

Shaken up completely, Waylon forced himself to finish his work nonetheless, holding back a what-would’ve-been noticeable cringe at the sight of tubes and wiring taking over Gluskin’s body, damaging his skin and likely everything holding his outer appearance intact.

Eventually, a “you’re finished, Mr. Waylon Park. You can leave.” The tactical division employee muttered other discouraging words, and Waylon left without second thought.

His mind raced as fast as his feet moved, praying to God that his email had the chance to send and deliver to the journalist he’d settled on. Fuck, what was his name? Was he even qualified to investigate an asylum like this? His heart picked up its pace as he approached the door to the room he’d previously been working in.

“Somebody’s been telling stories outside of class.”

Fuck.

Jeremy fucking Blaire.

Before he could get a single word in, he was shoved to the ground. Commands were thrown at him faster than he could react to.

“On the floor! Down! Hands where I can see them!” Park didn’t even have a chance to comply-- he was already being thrown against the nearest wall, his head slamming against the brick with such a force that his ears were left ringing and his vision blurred. He groaned, trying to focus on the words coming out of Blaire’s mouth. He hardly caught anything, other than the site of his laptop being destroyed completely.

“Stupid, Mr. Park. More than stupid, in fact… That was crazy.”

Fuck.

Why did he send the email on a borrowed computer? He should’ve waited.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to have you committed. Mr. Park, will you willingly submit to forced confinement?” Waylon blinked, his ears still ringing, unable to get a single sentence out. “Did you hear that, agent?”

“He said ‘yes’, Mr. Blaire.”

“N-no--” Waylon’s speech was off. Everything felt off.

“Great. Oh, and… Did I just hear Mr. Waylon Park volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine program?”

“That’s what I heard, Mr. Blaire.” The security guard confirmed for Jeremy.

“I--” Park was delivered a full blow to the abdomen at his attempt to speak, releasing another pained groan at the feel of it.

“...Maybe you could administer Mr. Park here a light anesthetic?”

Then there was sharp pain to the head.

Again.

And again.

Until everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Discomfort wasn’t enough to describe how he felt. He woke up with a stiff neck, restrained arms and legs, all while sitting upright with little to no willpower left in his body. Mentally, he was tired. Physically, he was completely drained. His limbs were throbbing in protest every time he attempted to move, so it left him with the only logical option: to give up.

His head rolled from side to side, proving the exhaustion that had taken over his body. His neck could hardly support his head at this point. He heard a muffled scream-- the scream of a man-- coming from his right side, but couldn’t force his skull to turn in the direction of the sound. It was an awful sound, similar to something you hear in a horror film. A shout of terror.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Hours? Days? Weeks? Hell, even months? The effort that it took to think so deeply was only worsening his headache. No, the bright light emitted from the gigantic screen in front of him was the cause of his migraine, not his thoughts.  _ The fucking morphogenic machine? Are you serious? _ Waylon thought to himself, his ears ringing and pulse at an all time low.

But then everything stopped at once, hardly giving the man any time to adjust to the newfound silence that also became the host of the constant chiming in his ears. The restraints previously binding his wrists and ankles to the chair suddenly popped open, allowing for full movement. Park forced himself to stand, regardless of whether or not he had the strength in him. He pushed any signs of protest that his body offered him to the side, knowing fully well that his physical state was the last thing he should be worried about. Even the small fiber of strength left in his body wasn’t enough to keep him standing, though, as he felt himself crash in sudden expenditure.

A groan slipped past his lips as he crashed into the cold, tiled floor, suddenly finding himself wishing that he was still unconscious. He momentarily laid still, trying to gather his mind when the sound of a newly-escaped variant pulled him back into reality.

“...You think you’re safe in there, wallflower. Pretty flower. Fucking… I’ll open you up. Open you up and show you. Make you purr. You wait right there.”

That was all Waylon needed to hear to know that booking it out of his confined room was his best shot at getting anywhere (alive, that is). So, the minute the door opened, he showed himself out, not sparing a second glance at the man who granted him his freedom in the first place.

-

_ What the fuck. What the fuck? What the fuck _ . He thought he’d seen it all from simply working for Murkoff, but clearly he’d underestimated the corporation’s capabilities to surprise him even more. There was blood around every corner. If not blood, necrophilia. If not necrophilia, simply crazed inmates running around every spare inch of the asylum. He couldn’t blame them, though. He’d only been stuck in their situation for two hours; he couldn’t imagine being there for more than that.

_ Fuck it _ , he thought to himself as he gave himself a moment to breathe in the vents above the medical bay.  _ Let them kill whoever they want. We deserve it _ .

He paused.

_ No, not we. _

_ They. _

_ They deserve it _ .

Shaking the thought aside, he managed to maneuver his body in the direction of light. Once there, he caught a glimpse of the ground before dropping from the ceiling into the room below. He tried to steady his breathing now. Stressing would do no good.

The corner of the small room contained a visibly stressed inmate, whose body was trembling with such force that Waylon could have sworn he felt the vibrations under his feet. They were muttering something, something muffled. Something that would likely make no sense even if the words were audible to the human ear.

To his right, a heavy, metal crate blocked the door, and Waylon sighed.  _ I’m exhausted _ , he thought.  _ I’m fucking exhausted and tired of having to use muscle-- well, what’s left of it-- to get around this damn place _ . Nonetheless, he put all of his weight against the heavy object, shoving it away from the entrance.

He glanced back at the stressed inmate one last time before leaving the (actually somewhat comforting) room.

Gunshots echoed in the distance, followed by screams and indistinct shouts containing profanities and curses upon the asylum. Despite his best judgement, he ran toward the sound just in time to see a security guard lock the entrance to the building.  _ Fuck _ .  _ Are you fucking kidding me? _ He gave himself a short second to look around for another exit, but couldn’t find one.  _ Climbing it is, then _ .

He hoisted himself upon the nearest set of wood, likely waiting to be used for further construction that would no longer occur in the asylum. The beams gave him just enough room to  slide into the nearest hallway, which was only visible by the occasional red warning lights. He tried the nearest door.

Locked.

He attempted the door after that.

Locked.

Each door was locked except for the kitchen entrance, which he gladly accepted as an open invitation. Of course, though, upon entering, he found himself struggling to maneuver his way through lunch tables that had been crammed together, and chairs that also stood in the way. A sudden, sharp sound of a saw of sorts pulled him out of any lingering thoughts.

Oh,  _ shit _ .

He recognized the former inmate almost immediately. How couldn’t he?

Frank Manera.

The man who entered this facility at 228 lbs and now stood at 155. The man who quickly became another victim of Project Walrider. The man who once smoked so heavily, you’d know he was near just because of the smell he emitted.

Frank Manera, now a cannibal, stood behind the glass separating the previously talkative lunch room from the serving area, giving Waylon the most menacing look he’d ever received.

“Don’t look at us. I love him…” Was all that Park picked up before his ears started ringing and he couldn’t bring himself to focus on any of the other words escaping the lunatic’s mouth.

He left the room quickly, his feet moving faster than his brain, leaving him with an overall confused stance at most points. The sound of the saw-- no, the  _ bone _ saw-- echoed faintly in the distance, followed by the occasional scream or glass shattering in response. The sound of the tool alone sent countless amounts of goosebumps all through his body, but the reminder that it was Frank Manera who held the instrument in his hand made it even worse.

_ Keep your distance, Waylon. That’s all you have to do _ .

Easier said than done.

His lost feet eventually led him to an old-looking corridor, where the sound of the bonesaw had faded into the distance, leaving him with a little less stress to deal with. But of course, the only exit he could find was locked. And, to make matters worse, Park knew that the key to unlock the door was near security, in the direction of the bonesaw’s screeching.

_ Maybe _ , he thought to himself,  _ I could sneak past him _ . He wasn’t exactly known for having 20/20 vision anyway, so his chances were a little better than none.

He was so focused on the geometrics and physics that went into moving the obstruction out of his way to create a more open path; he needed to make the process of retrieving the key as easy as possible for himself. He was so focused that the sound of footsteps becoming increasingly louder behind him never became a concern of his until two strong, blood-covered arms were wrapping themselves around his neck, pulling a strangled sound from Waylon’s throat.

He struggled for air, his arms thrashing in all directions in a poor attempt of freeing himself from the painful grip. His feet weren’t on the ground anymore.  _ Jesus Christ, how strong is this fucker? _ Black dots were suddenly making appearances in the corners of his eyes, threatening to cover the entirety of his vision.

The arms only drew tighter, and it was like Waylon’s senses had all been heightened at once. The smell of whatever was holding him in place reminded him of a morgue. Dead bodies, to be precise. The taste-- whatever it was he was tasting, he didn’t want to know-- was pure salt and something along the lines of copper. Copper, copper, copper… _ Blood _ . His ears had been ringing for so long, that the sound and sight of the bonesaw helped him to piece two and two together.

The tool emitting the sound drew closer and closer, threatening Park in more way than one. He could have sworn that the sharp metal of the instrument had touched his throat by now. There was no way it hadn’t. Yet his ability to recognize the 5 senses currently thriving in his system were proving him wrong.

And then the buzzing stopped.

“No… Not yet,” Frank suddenly loosened his grip on the weaker man, whose chest rose and fell rapidly at the chance to breathe. “Not yet. You, unlike the others, have meat. Meat that I can  _ cook _ .”

Waylon swallowed at this, his chest beginning to ache. Whether that was from the suffocation he’d received from Mr. Manera or the anxiety attack that had been creeping up on him since he’d woken up from the morphogenic machine… He didn’t know.

Even though he was in the position to slip out of Frank’s grasp and run for his life, he knew that would likely lead to more disaster than anything. Plus, he couldn’t run for shit. He was exhausted. To top everything off, he was getting a migraine. Like, the migraine of all migraines.

“I think I’ll call you  _ mine _ . My pet. That sounds appropriate.” Frank’s voice shook as he used his upper body to hold Waylon in place.

“N-n-”

“Don’t talk. Don’t even  _ try _ to speak. Pets don’t speak.”

Waylon felt a sudden rush of anger flash through his body. He knew damn well that whatever he said would get him killed or seriously hurt, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Fuck y-you, I’m not a fucking pet.” His voice sounded strained.

A rough blow to the lower portion of his back followed by a kick to the neck knocked the wind out of him; he sounded like a fish out of water, struggling to breathe. He felt a sudden coldness wring itself around his forehead. His ears were ringing again, his vision beginning to blur. The cool liquid forming around his forehead reached his ears, and he quickly realized that it was blood. His head had smacked the concrete floor  _ hard _ .

“Are you daft?”  _ kick _ “I believe I said not to speak.”  _ kick _ “Use that useless piece of meat in your skull. Don’t. Talk.”  _ kick. kick. kick. _

Another groan slipped past Waylon’s lips. Everything hurt. Everything felt heavier than before. Everything felt  _ wrong _ .

And then he slipped into darkness again.


End file.
